


It don't take a word

by Builder



Series: Chasing Ghosts [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky Barnes Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Natasha Romanov, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “What spooked you?”James sighs and gives in to a heave before he answers.  He doesn’t want to talk about it, but she deserves an answer.  A few words, at least.“Somebody coming out a door too fast.  In my face.”  James hacks and gags himself accidentally.  “Hit a little, uh, too close to, well, uh…”“Far away from home?” Tasha finishes“Yeah, that.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Chasing Ghosts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1290962
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	It don't take a word

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

James slags home from campus, feeling as though he’s pushing the car instead of driving it. Steve’s outdated sedan is reliable, but today the front wheel drive is bumpy over the layers of ice and grit on the streets, and he isn’t a fan of the number it’s doing on his aching stomach. 

Aching. Every part of him is aching. The hand of his prosthesis is clamped stiffly around the ten-o-clock side of the steering wheel, sending pins and needles up into what remains of his shoulder. His head throbs every time he pauses at a red light, then hits the gas again. James tries to tap the pedals slowly, carefully, but he speeds a little in his eagerness to get home. 

He parks crookedly, but doesn’t care. James slings his bag over his good arm, wincing as it thumps against his back with a decidedly unsympathetic and entirely too heavy pat. “Hmph,” he exhales, swallowing frantically lest he lose control of his insides right there in the parking lot. James supposes it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world; they already have the reputation of being the apartment with those damned coeds. Being the one who left an unsavory gift beside a sloppily angled car isn’t much worse. Plus, it would probably freeze overnight. 

Still, the bathroom is better. James runs his tongue along the backs of his teeth, scraping away the thick, slightly bilious saliva. He spits, snuffs, and takes off at what he hopes is a reasonable pace toward the gate and the stairs. 

James takes them two at a time until his legs start to shake. Then he slows and sticks a little closer to the railing. He’s watching his sneakers ascend the steps, kicking them out slightly to remove the snow sticking to the toes, when suddenly a door opens two inches from his nose. 

James stiffens, and his mind immediately goes blank. Fight or flight takes over. Even sick, he can dredge up the energy to crush whatever opponent has the gall to take him on. 

A laundry basket precedes the dark figure, and James goes for that first. It’s probably meant to be a distraction, potentially containing some sort of device. Maybe an explosive. Or maybe it’s just a decoy. 

Socks and blue scrubs go tumbling, and someone loudly shouts, “Hey!”

James grinds his teeth. He isn’t sure if he says something or not. If he does, it probably starts with “Fuck.”

He goes for the head next. James’s knuckles come into contact with the jaw, and something wet drips down his fingers. Spit, probably. Maybe blood. 

“Hey, man,” the opponent says through his fat lip, “I didn’t do it, ok?” He backs up as far as he can. The laundry room door has swung shut, and he plasters himself against it, his hands held roughly at the level of his ears.

“What?” James realizes he’s out of breath. This guy’s a civilian? Is he a suicide bomber? James looks him up and down as best he can in the tight space. The man is slender and dressed in running tights and an equally close-fitting top. No backpack, nowhere to put an explosive. The laundry basket was probably the best bet for a hidden threat, but it seems clear. Since it’s all toppled halfway down a flight of stairs, James doubts there’s a bomb tied up in a pair of boxer briefs. 

“Yeah. I didn’t do it.” The guy gives James an impressive side eye. “What’s got up your crawl, man?”

“I, um,” James stutters. He wants to apologize, to explain, but he needs to get out of there. He opens his mouth again to say something, maybe something about the war, the PTSD, but all that comes out is a nauseous hiccup. 

“You ok?” The man James just socked in the jaw now leans in closer, offering what looks like it’s about to be a comforting pat on the arm. 

“No, I, I,” James looks wildly around. “I’m really sorry,” he mutters, then he turns on his heel and takes off.

Speed comes easily again, but only for the next half-flight of steps. James has just enough time to register the unfairness of it, the fact that he can see their front door from where he’s forced to stop and brace against the wall as what feels like every ounce of strength, as well as several gallons of liquefied snot, exit his body through his open mouth.

“Jesus fuck.” James drags his fist across his lips, but he just bows forward and vomits again. Strings of mucous drip down his chin, and the sourness of bile in his throat makes his eyes water. Tear tracks burn their way across his cheeks before becoming lost in his stubble.

James swears again, watching his sick flow from one stair to the one below it. It’s slow, like lava, and, as he thought before, will probably freeze over before the night is through. Then at least it won’t smell. And he’s a floor and a half above the mystery neighbor’s spilled laundry.

James moves away from the mess as quickly as he can, dashing up the last few steps and tinkering with the doorknob. He’s too shaky to handle keys, but it doesn’t matter. The door’s unlocked. 

That means Tasha must be home. Now that she’s free of self-bolting dorm doors, she rarely locks up. James usually gives her a lecture when he comes tome to an easily penetrable front door, but today he’s ready to write her a thank-you note. As soon as he stops trembling head to toe, that is.

James drops his bag as soon as he’s inside and starts in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Jamie?” Tasha sits curled in the recliner, the lamp on like a spotlight over her head, making her auburn curls glow red-gold. Her brow wrinkles as she focuses in on him. “What’s wrong with you?”

James wants to say ‘nothing.’ ‘Mind your own business.’ ‘Do your homework,’ or something similarly big brotherly that will get her to lave him alone. When he opens his mouth, though, he practically feels his Adam’s apple bob straight up into his mouth, bouncing off the uvula and bringing with it a rush of more guck. Instead, he makes a guttural noise and shakes his head.

He fully expects Tasha to shrug and go back to her whatever-she-does when she sits alone in the apartment. Read. Meditate. But instead, she hops to her feet and rushes at him. At least that’s how it feels to James, who is so barely on his feet that he may as well be moving backward. 

“Huh?” he groans.

“I said, what’s wrong with you?” Tasha grabs him by the shoulders. 

James flinches slightly. Tasha loosens her grip and moves to gently massage the angry skin at the edge of the prosthesis. It barely makes a ridge under his clothing, but she knows exactly where to find it. 

“Pfft,” James makes a negligible sound whilst trying to clear some of the awful taste growing again at the back of his mouth. “Just,” he sniffs. “Sick. Shook up.” He slowly lets his forehead come to rest on Tasha’s shoulder, her ear a warm comfort pressing against the top of his head. 

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” James swallows a gag.

“Jamie.” He knows Tasha’s giving him a look.

“Got shook up,” he admits through tight lips. “Then got sick.”

“Going to again.”

“No,” James protests, though by now he’s sucking down bile.

“Wasn’t a question.” Tasha walks him sideways toward the bathroom, expertly negotiating them through the doorway like a pair of ballroom dancers at Blackpool. 

She throws him down in front of the toilet with the same amount of gentle grace, then hooks her arms through his to unzip his jacket and help him get comfortable. 

James sets his cheek on the toilet seat and looks up at her with glassy eyes.

“Gonna be in here for a long night?” Tasha asks, using a washcloth to sponge a dribble of vomit from the front of his coat.

“Hope not,” James says into the toilet bowl. “But probably.”

“What spooked you?”

James sighs and gives in to a heave before he answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it, but she deserves an answer. A few words, at least.

“Somebody coming out a door too fast. In my face.” James hacks and gags himself accidentally. “Hit a little, uh, too close to, well, uh…”

“Far away from home?” Tasha finishes

“Yeah, that.”

James drags his wrist across his lips and gives her a tremulous smile. “You don’t have to stay, you know. Go do your…whatever you were doing. Steve’ll be home soon.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Tasha settles on the side of the bathtub. “Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t aspirate on your own puke.”

“Nah, it’s only you who do that,” James pokes at her before he leans over the toilet for another wave.

“Only when I drink!” Tasha protests. “Give me some credit, here.”

“Ok, ok. You’re a fine nurse.” James sits back on his heels and flushes the toilet. “And not always a horrible patient.”

Tasha grins. “Feeling better?”

James smiles weakly back. “A little. Still bad, but the edge is gone. I think I need to sleep the rest off.”

“Let me re-diagnose you in the morning? Find out if it’s cold or flu?” Tasha offers.

“Sure. You and Steve can tag-team it, if you want.” 

James shakes his head at Tasha’s evil expression and heads to the bedroom for clean clothes and warm blankets. Nothing is solved, by any means, but like he told Tasha, he feels a little better. 

And all it takes is a little sister. 


End file.
